28 Hotel Rooms
by The Purple Pineapple
Summary: Olitz relationship in vignettes, moments in hotel rooms. Starts after Liv quits the White House, the night Fitz decides to give her the Providence Key. There will be flashbacks to the trail, but mostly Fitz' first term, the trail for re-election and then
1. Room 327

**I watched a trailer for a movie with the similar conceit. A relationship followed through vignettes in hotel rooms. So, naturally I thought of Olitz. Starts after Liv quits the White House, the night Fitz decides to give her the Providence Key. There will be flashbacks to the trail, but mostly Fitz' first term, the trail for re-election and then we'll see :) I published this on my Tumblr a few days ago, but only got around to posting it here now. I hope you'll like it!**

* * *

He has a strong step. Heel-first. Digs the heel into the carpet, it's loud, and sudden; harsh even. It's confident. Then, it turns soft as his foot hits the floor. Hard and soft; confident and tender. Even. The rhythm familiar.

She can no longer recognize his footsteps. Before, before she said yes, before they made him president, before; on the trail, she could lie in bed and she could hear his footsteps. She'd hear him approaching; she'd hear him and her heart would race. She waited for him, and she hated herself for it. Not for the hotel rooms and the sleepless nights; for the dawns that she spent facing the window to avoid watching him close the door. No, she hated herself for waiting for him long after; for waiting for him when she read a great story; for waiting to tell him about a song she heard on the radio that made her cry that one night; for thinking of him every time she discovered a great bottle wine. She hates herself for the days, not the nights, she spends waiting. But now, now she can't tell. There are three, four, maybe, pairs of footsteps approaching. And she knows it's him; she can feel it; but she can no longer recognize him. This – the hotel room, her waiting and him coming – it no longer feels real, it no longer feels safe, it's no longer a place she wants to be at.

And there's a quiet click of the door.

A thick hand pushes it open and she sees his feet crossing the line; stepping inside. She looks up.

Silence.

He used to say – _hi. _He'd step in and he'd say – _hi._ And she'd smile. Her smile; the one she couldn't fight; not around him. The one that said _I'm happy_ and _I love you_; _I'm sorry_ and _I miss you; _all at the same time. That smile. And he'd smile back. And it would be promises and dreams, the ones she dared not dream; it would be courage and conviction; it would be passion. It would be enough; enough to make her forget about the outside; about the impossibilities, that would let her believe in them, in him; it was enough to let her smile back and say, -_hi_. But now, now he's standing there, rooted in place; the silence filling the space between them. And instead of smiling, she looks at her hands, as her fingers restlessly play with the hem of her silk blouse; twisting, twisting, until it hurts.

He walks to the window; his steps sure, hard; and he stares outside; looks out at the DC lights; neat and tidy, from way up high. His fingers are gripping the window sill, and she can tell, she can see; the way his jaw is clenched; the way his shoulders are slumped and the way that vein in his forehead is pulsing - he's angry.

"Fitz-" But he lifts his hand, without lifting his head, and she stops. She had nothing to say anyway; nothing but his name; leaving her lips like a prayer; a plea – to remember the first time she said it; and the last. The last time she whispered it as her nails dug into his back; as his forehead fell on her shoulder. She needs him to remember – that once, he loved her. That she loved him back.

"You left me." He says, lifting his gaze yet again; the city lights reflected in the cerulean eyes. But then, so is the darkness of the night. "You left me all alone."

"I'm sorry." She utters it, and her voice cracks under the unbearable finality of the words. "I… I couldn't do _it_ anymore." And he flinches as she says, _it_. It cuts deep; deeper than he'll ever admit. Another little scar that will never heal. And she notices; the way his knuckles get a little bit whiter, as his fingers dig into the hard wood; the way he grits his teeth and narrows his eyes a little bit. "I'm sorry." She's apologizing. But she no longer knows what for. For leaving him, or for falling in love with him; or maybe for letting him believe?

"You are the President of the United States. You cannot be having an affair. And, I, I could no longer be the mistress." And again, he flinches. And she thinks it's because of what she said; but really, it's because he knows she means it, believes it. _Mistress._

"A letter?" He asks, after a brief pause; all traces of anger gone. He turns around and looks at her; his eyes blood-shut; he looks tired. He looks as unhappy as she feels – she's better at covering it, she's always been better at covering it.

"It… seemed like a good idea at the time. Clean." And her voice sounds foreign. Her fingers twisting the soft silk.

"Clean." He whispers, his lips barely moving. And then he chuckles to himself. Softly. And then, then he's laughing. At first it's quiet, but it grows louder, until it's filling up the room, bouncing off the walls; until it's filling up her soul. And then, she's laughing with him. She's laughing, because she can't afford to cry; not now; she's laughing because this laugh, it's not happy, it's hysterical; it's maddening; it's unshed tears and mourning of a dream. She's laughing as tears stream down her cheeks; she's looking at him, as tears stream down his. And she can't breathe. She's gasping for air, as she collapses on the bed; her palms on the soft covers. Her fingers still. No longer twisting. And he stops too, in a few loud gasps; or maybe cries?

"You were never a mistress. You… You were more. You were always more than that. You… You were everything." And all she hears is the past tense – and it stings, hurts; her insides feel like they're on fire.

_Were_; they _were_.

So, winning feels like dying?

And she just nods her head in acknowledgment. She can't speak. Not to him. Not without breaking. He takes a step towards her and she pleads; her eyes wide; she pleads with his eyes to stay, to stay away. But he takes another step. And another. His feet moving effortlessly along the carpet. He kneels before her and takes a velvet box out of his pocket. She shakes her head. She closes her eyes, then opens them – but he's still there; it's not one of her dreams, it's not one of her nightmares. This, this is real. "Open it." And she does, with shaky hands.

A ring; the gold wire _twisted_; infinity. She looks at him; her lips fighting a small smile; unsure. "Wait for me." And she just looks at him, her hand instinctively closing over his, trying to steady it. She tilts her head and closes her eyes, again. This time, she knows he'll be there when she opens them. And that knowledge, it's happiness. "Right now; this, us; right now, it's impossible. But, wait for me. Give us a possibility. Give us, give me, one day." And she takes the ring from his hand and slips it on her index finger. And he smiles – a line straight to the heart.

She cups his cheek with her hand; the metal still cool against her skin. He leans into her touch; how he's yearned for it; needed it; dreamed of it. And she puts her other hand on his other cheek, cradling his head, as her fingers play with the hair at the base of his neck. She bends down, and hovers above him for a moment. He thinks she's doubting, calculating; but she's relishing, committing the moment to memory. Her lips touch his, and it's soft, tender at first; the creases and crevices getting re-acquainted; the familiar spark; the fire spreading through them; until it's all instinct; until it's primal. Until it's his tongue sliding into her mouth; until it's her hands traveling down to his belt. Until it's clothes on the floor and him pushing her back onto the bed. Until the room is filled with their heavy breaths and soft whispers; quiet moans. Until he's filling her up, and she's holding him tight. Until they're lying together, their naked bodies intertwined; their chests heaving; their fingers feverishly exploring the burning skin. It's been too long. They've missed this.

She buries her head in the crook of his neck, her leg thrown lazily over his; her arm resting on his chest; as his draws patterns on his back.

"What am I writing?" He asks, his voice lost in her hair.

"Fitz!" She replies, her laughter muffled by his chest. "You can't be serious."

'You're right, this is silly." And with that he's flipping her over, so that she's lying on her stomach; his hands, holding hers above her head. He draws a line along her spine with his tongue. And he feels her shiver as the cool air touches the warm, wet trail. "Want to play now?" And she just nods her head, looking at him through hooded eyelids. And she guesses the letters, absentmindedly, not recognizing the pattern; his touch, the sensations; the way he knows her body so perfectly – overwhelming; distracting. And she drifts off to sleep, as he rests his head between her shoulder blades.

She feels his absence instantly, the cool sheets are no replacement for his warm skin; not even when they smell like him. He kisses her forehead softly, "Go back to sleep."

"Fitz…"

"One day." He says with a soft smile. "We have one day." He buckles his belt, fruitlessly trying to iron out the wrinkles in his shirt by his hand. He slips his hand in his pocket, and pauses for a moment. He pulls out a card and kneels next to the bed. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, "I want you to have this?"

"What is i-" But she stops when she sees the contents of the card; her facial expression instantly shifting. Panick. "Fitz, you can't-"

"One day."

"But I'm not-"

"You're everything." He says as he lays a soft kiss on her temple. "I love you."

"I love you too." She barely manages to push it past the lump in her throat. She knows, it's the last time she can say it; a last time for a while. This is it, for them, for now. And he knows it too. He kisses her again. As he pulls away he leans his forehead against hers. He inhales her, and she breathes him in; their fingers interlaced; the metal no longer cool against her skin.

He gets up. Quickly. And turns on his heel. Inhaling sharply. He wipes away a tear, and she lets hers roll down her cheek, slowly. He walks to the door. His steps strong. She can hear him walking away, the familiar steps. Before, before he'd sound broken when he left; but now, now she swears there's hope in the rhythm of his steps. And she smiles, the tear caught in the corner of her lips.

She traces the thin letters, _One Minute_.

* * *

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	2. Room 758

_One ring._

She mutes the TV.

_Two rings. _

She picks her phone up from the table and drops it in her lap.

_Three rings. _

She brings the cool rim of the glass to her lips.

_Four rings._

She tilts the glass and the familiar taste tickles her taste buds – sweet at first; warmth in her throat; then bitter, for the briefest moment, it's bitter; and then the salty aftertaste, dark oak and Northern California grapes.

_Five rings._

She slides her thumb across the illuminated screen. She closes her eyes before lifting it; before the click; before answering. She closes her eyes for a moment; to pretend; that she has a choice; that her mind wasn't made up the second the shrill sound pierced the white noise. She inhales and brings the phone to her ear. She listens. For a minute she just listens. To him breathe. The familiar sound matching the rhythm of her heart.

She exhales, "Hi." It's a whisper. A breath she's held since that night; a breath she's held for months; a breath being let out.

Quiet. No sound. He's no longer breathing. He inhales her whisper like air, like Oxygen; lets it fill him up, bring him back to life. He's been living off of memories; vignettes, moments corroded by time and space. "Hi." And his voice cracks.

Quiet. No sound. Neither knows what to say, where to start. It's been four months. Four months since he asked; since she promised; since they agreed. Four months of loving, alone; of missing, alone; of being, alone. Four months. Many more to go.

"I've had the best ice cream of my life today." He says, as he leans back into the leather seat.

"Yeah?" She asks, as she puts the wine glass on to the table, next to the remote.

"Yeah," a small pause; he digs his nail into his palm, "coffee, you would have liked it." He remembers. He remembers that night in Santa Barbara, the nigh after his father's funeral. He remembers her coming down at 4am; he remembers her snuggling into his chest, as he lay on the pool lounge chair. He remembers the kiss; how tender, how sweet it was – how different from the way their tongues usually dueled; her lips slowly molding to his; as if, as if, they had time; forever, and not just a little while; not just until dawn. He remembers the taste of her lips – coffee. And she said, it was ice cream.

And she remembers it too; that night. The way he held her so tight, as if he was holding on for dear life. She remembers the taste of his lips; the taste of their kiss – scotch mixed with sweetened coffee. She remembers how his heartbeat slowed down when she put her head on his chest; she remembers the steady beat under her ear. Sometimes, she lays awake at night and tries to remember the rhythm. And sometimes, sometimes she does; but lately, lately she just lays awake at night and drowns in silence. The awful quiet.

"I _would_ have liked that." She says with a small smile; melancholy clouding her eyes. She blinks; no tears. She shakes her head; musters all her strength; the fixer. "So your first G8 and you survived to tell the tale, huh?" She plays with the hem of her cashmere sweater as she pulls her legs up on the couch.

"We'll get the extra troops." It's a victory. A big one, for him. But he doesn't sound happy. He sounds exhausted.

"I know." She says softly. In that voice she knows soothes him; the voice that is barely above a whisper; the one she uses when she props herself on her toes and lets her breath tickle the skin on his neck.

Quiet. Again.

"I called your home." It comes out as an accusation, and he hates himself for it; for sounding insecure and needy; for making her feel guilty. He hates himself for not being there, for making her wait. He hates himself for wondering if she's in someone else's bed; for wondering if there's another man; for wanting there not to be one. He has no right. But it feels like dying; the image of her in someone else's arms; he's burning on the inside.

"Fitz-"

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have… I have no right."

Silence.

She leans her head against the back of the couch and closes her eyes. This is it. The time, to make a choice; to _choose _him. It wasn't that night, no; this is it, now.

"I… I'm in New York. On a case." She opens her eyes and lifts her head. "There's no one else." And she can hear him exhale. She can imagine his face. The jaw no longer feverishly clenched; his brows furrowed less; his grip on the phone easing.

"I'm sorry." And she doesn't know what he means. Sorry for the tone he used, for the implication? Sorry he cares, or sorry for thinking she doesn't? Sorry she's waiting for him; or sorry he asked her to do it? Sorry – a word so deceptively simple; forever laced with poison of regret. She's sorry too; but like him – she doesn't know, what about.

There's nothing to say. Nothing she could say that would take away regret. All she can do is temporarily ease his pain.

"Remember that night in Atlanta?" He chuckles. She can imagine him nodding his head, then smiling after he realizes she can't see him. And she smiles – in that moment that is enough.

"The rooftop. And Stevie Wonder," his voice trails off. "God, you looked amazing in that dress! And the way you danced… I could have, I could have watched you forever."

"You weren't too bad yourself mister. I mean, for a Johnny Cash fan!"

"Ouch." And they both laugh. They stop abruptly – both wanting to hear the other one, to relish in the sound. The silence again. The loaded quiet. The burden of unsaid.

"We drank too much that night."

"We laughed too much."

"We loved too much." She presses her forehead against the sole of her palm. "We love too much." And she thinks to herself – _and somehow, it's still not enough_. She doesn't say it. No, it's not a conversation they're ready to have; perhaps they'll never be ready. But he knows; he knows what she's thinking. He knows, because he's thinking it too. Forever, in sync.

"You smelled divine." And it's his turn now. His turn to distract her; to talk her off the proverbial ledge. "And that thing you did… with your tongue." And his voice drops an octave. And he can imagine; imagine her face as she blushes and looks down, for a split second she'll look down; but then, then she'd look at him, through hooded eyelids. And that – that would be it.

She chuckles; blushing, as she looks up thought hooded eyelids – but the room, it's empty. And her smile fades, like a drop of ink diluted in water, without a trace.

"I miss you." And she lets out a sharp breath. It startles her, and it startles him as well. He hates this. He needs to see her face. He needs to see her face, because, when she's upset she has a tell; her lip quivers and she blinks furiously; her fingers become restless. He needs to see her face. He needs to wipe away the tear he knows is rolling down her cheek; to kiss the corner of her lips; to pull her head into his chest. "Liv…" She's not saying anything. Silence and broken breaths. Sharp, like shards of broken glass. Piercing through the silence. "Livvie…"

"I miss you too." She finally utters. Her voice barely even, the softness trying to cover up the cracks.

"I miss talking to you. I miss that the most. Your thoughts. The sound of your voice. The way it captivates me and drowns out everything else; the way your eyes light up when you talk about things you care about. And I miss kissing you; I miss the taste of you and the smell of you; and the way my head fit perfectly between the crook of your neck and your breast. I miss your heartbeat. I miss the way you made me feel; alive and complete. I miss you. All of you. All the time."

She looks at the ceiling, blinking furiously. "I miss your eyes. I miss your idealism, and infectious enthusiasm. I miss your hands. I miss feeling safe in your arms. I miss… us."

"We were good."

"We were." And she smiles to herself, because he, he's not there. "I miss dancing to Stevie Wonder with you."

Quiet. But it's no longer the awful quiet. It's two old friends, recounting memories, moments. It's two lovers sharing a dream, without speaking it, without letting themselves even think it. Hotel rooms filled with dreams, with unsaid promises. The impersonal space filled with intimacy.

"I should go." He says reluctantly.

"You should." She straightens her spine and wipes away her tear. This is it. Until next time. Until the next phone call, or a chance encounter; until the next time a memory becomes to vivid to bury; to heavy to carry. Until the next time a memory fades; another lost vignette – each one feels like death.

He lowers the phone, but then brings it back to his face. "Liv?"

"Yeah?"

"I miss the taste of scotch and sweetened coffee." And with that, the line goes dead.

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	3. Room 607

**So this is my take on Vermont and Jam - you knew it was bound to happen :)**

* * *

He leans on the cool windowsill, looking out at the marble city; the translucent-white, eerie buildings aligned neatly along the busy street. He picks the phone up, yet again. His finger hovers above the small button, as he stares at the familiar number; the _only _number. Hovers. Stuck in time and space. If he calls and she doesn't answer, he won't be able to stop, he won't be able to stop his brain from wondering, from imaging; he won't be able to stop the jealousy; the madness. If she doesn't answer, the silence; the line that dies in a steady beep, it will drive him crazy. If she answers; if she answers it will be like a breath of fresh air, it will be serenity; with her_ Hi_, a calm will wash over him. But then, somewhere along the line, they'll remember; they'll remember that even when he flies back, when he goes home – his home is not hers; he's not going home to her. They'll remember and it will hurt; it will make their chest tighten, his jaw clench and her lip quiver. And they'll blink, furiously; and they'll try to breathe, to mask the cracks in their voices. And maybe, maybe this time it will work; maybe this time, when they hang up, he won't feel like the air has been knocked out of his lungs. He can't; he can't not call her; and calling her hurts – it hurts him, as much as it hurts her.

He presses the small button. And the phone rings. Once. Twice. And she picks up. Faster than the last time. He smiles. He breathes out.

"Hi." And he can hear her sigh. And he knows, she's tilting her head, trying to decide if she can do this; if she has the strength to, right now. Because every time, every phone call – she trades a piece of her soul for a moment of painful bliss. And a lifetime of gnawing guilt.

"Hi." And he can breathe. It's like the burden of the world dissipates; falls away. The anguish, the anxiety; the tightness of every single muscle in his body – uncoils; slowly, as her voice washes over him. "So, how's London?" And there's a lightness in her voice: a lightness that covers up the cracks, the scars, the hurt, but not love; never love.

"I met the Queen." He says as he hooks his fingers through the noose around his neck and loosens it, the silk falling away effortlessly.

"What was she like?" She asks, and he hears the shuffling in the background – she's sitting down. And for a moment he lets himself imagine her apartment – what it smells like; like lavender and vanilla, like her hair on that late summer day? Does she have photos around? Is there food in her fridge, or just a bottle of unopened wine? Is everything white, crisp, clean; or is the one place she lets herself be messy? He wonders, and he yearns. "Fitz…" It's soft, a whisper. The kinds she'd follow with a light brush of her knuckles against his cheek.

"She is… impressive."

"Wow, you're really giving me the details here." And they both chuckle softly.

He turns around; away from the window; and leans his back against the icy glass. "She gave me jam." And he leans his head back, and closes his eyes, listening to her _not_ breathing. "Liv…" Nothing. A shallow breath. He shouldn't have said it. He shouldn't have mentioned it. It's a memory, a vignette of a perfect moment, of a campaign stop in Vermont; it's sacred – and this, it could tarnish it; ruin it. "Livvy…"

* * *

_She's leaning over the large cauldron, looking as a short, muscular woman stirs the contents. She waves her hand through the steam, pushing the warm air towards Liv. "Smell it." And he can see her inhale, and as the sweetness fills her lungs, she smiles. _

_"It's amazing."_

_"Locally grown blueberries." The woman retorts, proudly. _

_He crosses to where she's standing in a few easy steps, the yellow grass soft under his leather soles. "Can I have a whiff, too?" _

_"Governor," she says in that familiar tone; the one that's a warning, that's a line drawn in the sand; a border not to be crossed; a tone that stings, and scars – every single time. Not because it hurts him, but because he knows how much it hurts her; how every time she says it, a part of her believes, another little piece of her soul, that she is nothing more – nothing more than a mistress, than a phase._

_"Liv," And he almost whispers it, his breath tickling her ear, and he sees her neck twitch, her head instinctually leaning towards him. _

_And the lady smiles at them politely, her eyes darting between their faces; their eyes speaking what they're trying to hide. She waves her hand, and they both lean into the steam, the warm air engulfing their faces, filling their nostrils. It smells like sugar, melted sugar and ripe berries. The lady takes out the wooden spatula, then lets it cool in the air for a moment, a thick white cloud rising above the dark mass. "You can taste it if you like." Liv looks at her, almost gleefully, something so child-like about it, and then she sticks her slender finger into the gooey warmth. She giggles, softly, quietly – only for him, before she brings it to her lips and blows slowly, though a small O. She closes her eyes and opens her mouth, and she tastes it, sucking on the finger gently. He looks – mesmerized, oblivious to the world around them, to the racket, and the prying eyes; and Mellie's wondering gaze. Oblivious to everything other than her smile, the flutter of her eyelashes as she opens her eyes. _

_"Mom, can I try some too?" A girl, no older than nine, or ten asks; her colorful sundress covered in dark stains. _

_And her mother nods, smiling, "But be careful not to burn yourself." And she sticks her small finger in, trying to get as much as possible on it, then clumsily brings it to her lips, as jam drops on her already ruined dress. But neither of them seems to mind, her mother just laughs, before pulling the girl to her stomach and kissing the top of her head. "Go play." And she runs away, jam stuck in the corners of her lips; at the edges of her smile. _

_He looks over at Liv, but she's no longer smiling; she's blinking, furiously, her teeth digging into her bottom lip. "I… I just need to go freshen up." She says, her voice even, emotionless. She turns around quickly, and rushes towards the large building. He smiles, politely, then turns around and follows her inside. Their footsteps echo through the empty hallways, as they pass yearbook photos and trophy displays. She takes a sharp turn, and pushes the door to the bathroom in, and it hits the wall. The loud clash covers up her gasp. She leans on the sink, her arms shaky; her head bent, curtains of hair covering her face. _

_"Liv?" He asks as the door swings shut behind him. She looks up, and looks at his reflection in the mirror. She brings her shaky hand up, and wipes away the tears that stain her cheeks. _

_"I'm fine." She says, her voice icy. "We should head back out. Someone will notice that we… that you're gone."_

_"What's wrong?" He asks, as he takes a step towards her, but she turns around, so quickly that it startles him. _

_"I'm fine." She says again. There's something in her eyes, something akin to anger; and her voice, it invites him, dares him – to dare; to ask again. _

_He takes another step towards her, and she just shakes her head slowly. "What's wrong?" She brings her arm up, like a shield – meant to keep him away, at bay. But he takes her wrist in his hand and kisses the inside of it, gently; letting his lips rest above her pulse-point for a moment. "Livvy…" He whispers it against her skin. And then it's all a frenzy. She's stepping towards him, and she's kissing him – traces of tears still on her cheeks; and her tongue is slipping into his mouth – and she tastes sweet, like sugar, molten sugar, and berries. Like blueberries. And she's reaching for his belt with one hand as the other massages his crotch, and he breaks away, his hands on her shoulders, his voice coarse. "What are you doing Liv?" _

_"I just… I need this." And she looks so small in that moment, so fragile – her eyes red; her lips swollen. He turns around and he hears her inhale, sharply, as he starts to walk away. He reaches the door, and pauses for a moment. His hand slips form the handle to the lock and he turns it. And her face, the mix of hurt and relief, the shaky smile – it breaks his heart. _

_He's in front of her in a few strides, and it's his hands around her waist, and he's lifting her up; his fingers fumble with the button on her jeans, and she helps him – steadies him. And he slowly drags the zipper down, revealing a pair of lavender lace underwear. And he smiles – it's familiar. And she remembers too. They have memories now; they have things they know, things they recognize; things in common. Memories, and not just lies. He knows, he knows how to slip her jeans off; and to run his hands slowly up her thighs; he knows to kneel and pepper kisses from her knees, up, until he reaches the rim of her underwear. And he knows to lick up the other side; because she moans every time his tongue leaves her heated skin, and the cool air touches the wet trail. And he knows to pull her underwear down with his teeth, to let them scrape the soft skin on her hip. But not bruise it, never bruise it. He knows to lick, as she hooks her legs around his shoulders, to nibble gently as she threads her fingers through his hair; to insert his fingers as she thrusts her hips. He knows to suck hard as he picks up his pace; as her labored breaths become hitched, as his name rolls off her lips. And it crashes over her, like waves, and he stays, motionless, until she stills; until her hand glides lazily, with a quiet screech down the murky mirror. And she moves her legs, slowly, they're still shaky. _

_He gets up, wiping his face with the back of his hand. He turns on the tap and soaks a paper towel, then wipes the sticky liquid from her thighs. He helps her down, and pulls her underwear up. He buttons up her jeans – his hands no longer shaky; and lays a soft kiss on her hip. She cups his cheeks and pulls him up. She kisses him. This time it's different. It's tender and slow. She no longer tastes like jam. She tastes like sex, like desire, like them. She pulls away, and tilts her head, taking him in for a moment, then runs her hand down his chest, until she reaches his belt. She buckles it again, and smiles, wistfully. He kisses her temple, and inhales – she smells like vanilla and lavender. She walks towers the door, then pauses as her hand rests on the lock. She turns around. And looks at his reflection in the mirror. _

_"My mom and I… we… we used to make jam. Every year before she died, the weekend before I'd start school, we'd make jam. It was… I don't remember ever being happier." _

_And he smiles in the mirror, and she smiles back. Another moment. Another memory. The first piece of her soul she bared for him. The only piece._

* * *

"Blueberry?" She asks, finally; her voice shaky.

"No. Apple." And he can hear a sigh of relief, as she lets the memory slip away, yet again. "I should get to bed, it's getting late." And there it is – the lightness that masks the cracks, the scars, the hurt, but not love; never love.

"Good night." She says softly. And they stay on the line for a moment longer, for a couple of more shared breaths. But then he presses the little button again and the line goes dead. He lies on the bed, on top of the covers, fully clothed. And he picks up the jar, as the early morning sun sets the sky alight; _blueberry jam_.

He lied.


End file.
